PostBakerStreet
by Alltheroads
Summary: Through John, Sherlock discovers PostSecret and invents a new game.
1. Chapter 1

It's been five days since the last case. Five days.

Sherlock can already feel it- his brain is dissolving into nothing. It's leaking out of his ear. Without a case, he will cease to exist. What a cruel way to go.

So why is it he hears laughter? Rude, considering that he's dying of boredom. Doesn't John have any sympathy? Compassion?

No. He doesn't even have the decency to look at him.

John is sitting there in his armchair like nothing is happening. He's reading something. A draft? Working on his blog? No. He wouldn't have laughed. Their last case wasn't something laughable. Was it? John had a strange sense of humor.

For instance, he continues to chuckle while Sherlock is giving him a needy look. Some friend.

Ah, there. Now that look is more appreciated. Sad. Thoughtful.

Why?

What was he reading that had him change expressions so quickly? Might be worth getting off the sofa. Hm. Yes, alright. There is nothing else to do. It's decided. Sherlock gets up and walks over to John's chair. He peers over the laptop screen.

Oh, it's just a blog. A picture blog. Postcards? What is so interesting about postcards? Must be one of those hipster blogs he hears about so often. How boring.

John doesn't like hipsters either, though. Said so himself, a while back. So then, what is this?

A closer look at the postcards.

Interesting.

Is it?

Each postcard only has a sentence written on it. No postcard is written by the same person, he could tell that immediately. All sent to the same place in America. Post Secret.

All these people are sending in secrets to one person?

Why?

Why would they do that?

"Do you want to read some?" John asks.

Moron. Sherlock has already read some. He's not that interested. No, he'll go back to laying down on the sofa. Much more interesting. He sighs, and makes his way there.

Must be nice to be entertained by such trivial secrets.

John, of course, notices his disinterest. Instead of keeping quiet, though, he continues.

"Sometimes I try to imagine what these peoples lives are like. The kind of person who wrote them."

Does he? Yes, he does. After each postcard, he stops and thinks, imagining the owner of the secret as he wrote it out. Could be interesting. Perhaps a chance to work on his graphology, find out more about the people who wrote them. Yes. That might hold him over for an hour.

Sherlock walks back over to John, and snatches his laptop away. He ignores John's protest ("Sherlock, I didn't mean you could _take _my laptop- again!") and goes over to the sofa.

Many secrets are about sex. Typical.

The handwriting, though. It was from all sorts of people. People Sherlock wouldn't have thought would ever write something like this, even if it was promised to keep secret. Why did they write their secrets? Why did they trust them to the public?

Oh. John is sitting beside him. When did he do that?

Sherlock looks down at the clock on the bottom left hand side of the screen. He's been reading these for ten minutes. Deducing about people's lives. This could keep him occupied. He's actually found a... hobby.

Sherlock sneers at the word. Usually, he has his experiments to tide him over the longer waits. Nothing this week. Dull.

Secrets it was, then.

"Anything?" John questions. He's curious what Sherlock can read in the slopes and long tails of people's handwriting. Does he care about these people?

Some. The ones with the harder lives. The ones in the military, particularly. Sherlock can tell- that's where he's stopped. The blog had a special section for the soldiers that week.

Every Sunday. New secrets. People kept sending them in, hundreds. Sherlock scrolls done. Millions of hits. It's fascinating for Sherlock because he likes to deduce about their lives. Why for everyone else? A connection to humanity?

He scoffs.

Pointless.

"A few things. Little blips of they're lives. Unimportant," He replies. Still, Sherlock can't bring himself to give John his laptop back. He's already gone through all the postcards for this week. There were more, yes? Obviously. "Where are the others?"

John grins, but says nothing. It's a small victory for him. Sherlock doesn't understand why.

John took the laptop back, and took Sherlock to the archives. They weren't hard to find. He passed it back to Sherlock.

"There you are. Hopefully that will keep you from becoming the dying drama queen again." That was uncalled for, Sherlock thought. He really was dying of boredom.

There are... years worth of secrets in the archives. Years. Amazing. The man who had started this didn't think it would grow to be so big, he knows. This grew out of nothing. He's made a career for himself. For some reason, it's helping people. Ridiculous.

They make a game out of the secrets. John would try and deduce the lives of the people, Sherlock would tell him what he's right about. Sometimes, Sherlock would show off, and deduce more than John thought was possible.

Yes, Sherlock is showing off a little. He likes seeing the look of amazement on John's face, especially after the words stopped coming so frequently.

It's a fun game.

"What can you tell me about that one?" He points out a post card with wine bottles in the background, the message saying 'I wish they'd stop trying so hard.'

"Alcoholism," But John already figured that out, hadn't he? Yes. He's thinking of his sister. Can't help it. He's worrying about her. She's back on the booze. "The text was pasted on the postcard- this person is scared of having her handwriting being recognized. Their family or friends must read the website as well. It's very likely they're close, discuss the secrets. They think their alcoholism hurts their loved ones," He sighs. "But it's not enough to stop them. They will continue to drink, despite what their friends tell them."

John frowned, just as Sherlock knew he would. Well, he asked, didn't he? Maybe he wasn't being 'kind', or 'thoughtful' of John's feelings. Some would accuse him of being cold. He ignores the next couple of secrets, most lives predictable and then he stops on a different secret.

It's from a person who sits on their toilet in a different way. Sherlock swears up and down that it's Anderson, that he can tell from the mediocre drawing and the infantile handwriting. John breaks out into giggles, tells Sherlock to stop, and then laughs some more.

It wasn't Anderson who wrote the secret. Sherlock doesn't tell John.

When did John go to bed? It's suddenly so quiet. Sherlock can't tell how long he's been deducing things about the secrets and the people who wrote them. Can't even tell if he's been doing so out loud or not. Post Secret wasn't so bad after all.

He finds himself three months deeper into the collection of secrets. Each secret takes about 4 minutes to deduce everything he can from them. Some longer. Some shorter. Sherlock finds himself wondering if he's met any of these people.

Then he comes across an unspectacular looking secret.

It's a completely white postcard, except for the middle. Tiny, handwriting. Like a chicken scratch. Barely legible. A doctor's handwriting. Sherlock knows this handwriting. John.

'It terrifies me that what everyone says about me is right.'

What did he mean? What was everyone saying about him?

Not only did his handwriting indicate that he had been nervous, but that he wrote it swiftly as well. He wrote this while Sherlock was outside of the flat. Went out and mailed it soon after. It's not just a secret from other people. It's a secret from himself.

Whatever it was, John didn't want it to be true.

Ah.

Yes, it would make sense why.

Bringing this up probably wouldn't be the best idea to go about things. Sherlock could be wrong. (Ha!)He needs a way to get out of this, just in case. Hm. So then. How shall he do this?

A small smile spreads across his face.

John would appreciate that such sentiment.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't long after moving in with Sherlock that John realised that he was in deep trouble. The man did things to him. John had tried to brush it off as one of those... bromance things he heard so much about. He even had to try and convince others that he was straight.

Unfortunately, everyone, including himself, knew that he was lying. Just a week before John finally admitted to himself that yes, he was in love with Sherlock, he sent in his own postcard to PostSecret. It was something that he put together quickly. John wasn't really the artistic type.

It did the job, though. And it was nice to get it off his chest. He thinks that getting it down on paper made it much easier to come to terms with. Yeas, he knew that there was no point in dreaming about the what ifs and the maybes, but he was okay with it.

Life went on, no one really hounded him for being gay. No more than usual, anyway. John didn't even try to hide his attraction anymore. That's how it really clicked for him. If he didn't think too much on it, then he was alright. Nothing for Sherlock to deduce. It's not the first time John had to hide attraction from someone.

Still, he was happy with life. Solving crimes and running, always running. It's the kind of life John always wanted, and wasn't sure if he was going to have. John had even forgotten about that stupid secret he had sent in to PostSecret. Well, not entirely. He couldn't quite stay away from the blog that he had grown fond of. There wasn't really anything suspicious about him looking through a silly website, now was there? Sherlock hadn't paid attention to his internet history in _ages. _

It didn't take too long before one day, Sherlock was bored out of his mind. And what is it that Sherlock does when he's bored? Right: find some way to torment John, intentionally or not. John never expected Sherlock to ever become interested in the site. Neither did Sherlock, John knew. John never would have thought that Sherlock would have loved deducing random secrets from people so much. In the end though, it was far better than him blowing holes in the wall just because he was bored.

After the initial interest Sherlock had shown, John was positive that Sherlock would have gotten bored of the website. He should have after a day or to. But no, Sherlock's interest was piqued, and once that happened, it was like a full blown obsession. Sherlock wanted more- so John showed him the archives, hoping that _that _would cause boredom.

John was wary about Sherlock going through the archives. His secret was buried in there somewhere. A long, forgotten secret. Nothing that anyone would remember. Unextraordinary, he made sure of that. But Sherlock would recognize something in it, wouldn't he? Something, anything on a small white card. A smudge of John's favorite tea? The type of pen that he used? Try as he might, however, John couldn't remember what pen he used, or if he had chosen to use a card instead of a plain white postcard.

John relaxed when he had seen that Sherlock had went through the entire archive. If he didn't say a word, then that must have meant that he didn't know it was from John, right? And even if he did, it didn't change their relationship like John was afraid that it might.

So, the game went on. Every Sunday, John found himself sitting next to Sherlock for the better part of the morning, and Sherlock would not stop talking throughout the entire thing. Sherlock would sometimes add in his own sense of humor to the secrets, claiming that it was Anderson who sent in the Postcard, or that his brother must have sent in every single dieting card. John would laugh despite the jokes being cruel, and Sherlock would join.

This Sunday, Sherlock didn't have to call John over, and John didn't have to direct Sherlock to the blog. It was an automatic reaction.

John was going to miss this once Sherlock grew bored of their little game.

The secrets really aren't all that different than they normally are, but the handwriting always tells a different story. The stamp, whether the person was from there are not gave a good indicator where the person was from. If they were lucky, a card would show up in a different language.

There almost was never a secret that Sherlock could decode, even if it _was _in another language.

At the moment, however, Sherlock seemed to be a little stumped on a card. It looked hauntingly familiar.

The postcard was plain, white, and in the middle was a fast scribbling, as if the person writing it was afraid they would be caught at any moment. John must have been hallucinating, because the handwriting looked almost exactly like Sherlock's.

That must have been what Sherlock was so confused about. Or maybe it was that it looked like John's PostSecret card. Was Sherlock remembering it? Did Sherlock ever delete secrets he's already read? It's not like they were ever relevant, right?

There shouldn't be anything to worry about. Right? Sherlock must have deleted it. There was no reason to remember a secret after it's been deduced.

"'They are. I'm glad.'" Sherlock reads out loud. The meaning was lost to everyone. Was it a response to another card?

To his own?

Impossible.

Yes, he was just being paranoid. Plenty of people didn't put any effort into their secrets. It was all about getting something off of their chest. Just because this secret bared similarity.

Besides, it's not like Sherlock would do something as... as cruel as this. Make fun of him for his secret by imitating him. Maybe if someone else had sent in a letter but no, Sherlock wouldn't have ever put any effort into even sending a postcard.

Paranoid, Watson. You're being paranoid, and this is ridiculous. It's just a blog. Sherlock doesn't even take _your _blog seriously. Why would he take this one seriously? John rationalized. Right. Deep breaths.

The secret didn't even make any sense anyway.

Sherlock analyzed the card for a bit more before he spoke. "This one was written on a card that could be found around any flat- it's for everyday use. Normally, I would say that he'd- yes, he John, pay attention- he would want his card to be lost among all the other submissions, but judging by the handwriting... The handwriting in precise- the writer wants it to be read, that much is obvious," Sherlock rattled off.

So far, John followed easily. How could he not, when the end result interested John more than any other secret he's ever read before. He can't help but feel that yeah, this is a response to his secret. Whether or not it was a joke remains to be seen.

"It's a response to something. It's not a secret, not really. It's a bold statement. Perhaps this is the only way he can express what he feels. More than likely, he is responding to another secret that is found on this website," He continues. " All we have from it is 'They are'. They are what? Perhaps 'they' are right about something,"

And oh, Sherlock is definitely onto something.

He knows. He has to know. Why is he doing this then? If Sherlock did this just because he was bored, John is going to punch him in the throat. The utter bastard.

John shook his head. This was completely unbelievable. John can't even stand to stay next to Sherlock to hear the rest of his stupid joke. He moves to get up... when Sherlock grabs his wrist and pulls him back down. Sherlock keeps his fingers tightly wrapped around John's wrist, keeping him there.

Although, John thought, I could just get up.

Still, something was keeping him there. That little bit of danger, that taste of the edge that told him to _jump. _Just listen to Sherlock a bit longer. It _would _be a rather elaborate joke, after all.

"They, the people all around the other person. Accusing him of something. What? Looking at the second part of the secret, I could guess that it has something to do with..." Sherlock struggles with saying the word. Despite John's earlier thoughts, he smiles. "Feelings. More than likely: romance. He's happy the other secret sender feels the way that he does. This particular person who sent in the secret wants nothing more than to tell the person that he feels the same. Obviously, he's not very good with words."

"Obviously," John breathed. This was the way that Sherlock was going to confess to him? Really? He felt the same? So then... it _was _a response to his own secret. Christ. John hadn't even thought about his confession in... months. And now all the feelings that he had been trying to keep at bay were all rushing out.

It was all a little much. And that complete bastard- he didn't look surprised, or anxious. Just amused. He knew what he wanted all along. John didn't know whether he wanted to punch Sherlock or kiss him. At least that was a feeling he was used to.

"John?" Sherlock asked.

Ah, so he was more nervous than he let on. Good, serves him right. How long ago did he even send this postcard? How long had he known that John felt this way? John didn't even write anything about how he felt, just that he wasn't sure! But Sherlock knew. He always knew. Except for now.

Maybe Sherlock thought that he had made a mistake. John took a look at him. On the outside, the man looked pretty calm. John knew better. Sherlock had that look on, the look that Sherlock always had when he was trying to reassure himself. Probably somewhere along the lines of 'I'm right, I have to be right. I'm always right.'

John could torture him, make him wait a bit longer before he gave him a verbal confession. But really, after what he did? It was... sweet. Romantic, even. There really wasn't a reason for John to get sour over this, especially since this was the closet to an 'I love you' as he might ever get.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" John said with a smile, an entirely to wide smile that was usually reserved for first kisses. "You didn't have to go through all of that."

Sherlock nods.

Of course he knew that he didn't have to do all that. That's what makes it even better.


End file.
